PORT ST. LUCIE – I have to be honest: I never understood the appeal. He was an overfed, under-dignified sloth of an athlete, far as I could tell. He had one defining moment as a Yankee, when he threw a perfect game at a Minnesota Twins team that, at the time, would have had a hell of a time breaking even in the International League.

He was a boor. He was a bore. And you didn’t have to talk to him to know that. It was obvious from the cheapest seats at Yankee Stadium (back when there were cheap seats at Yankee Stadium). And it didn’t matter.

Yankees fans loved David Wells. Their devotion was deep, it was unequivocal and it was unabashed. They howled when he was traded, even though the deal brought a Hall of Famer named Roger Clemens in return. They treated him as a conquering hero when he came back to Yankee Stadium as a Jay in May of 1999.

They cheered when he was brought back from exile in 2002, forgave him the unforgivable sin of departing a World Series game for essentially being too out of shape to pitch, overlooked the way he shunned the Yankees for San Diego, of all places, and still welcomed him back as a Prodigal Son when he returned as a Padre last summer.

None of this ever made sense – but then again, I could never understand the fierce devotions Knicks fans always had for Latrell Sprewell. Like Wells, Sprewell was a terrific athlete who had one shining moment (the Knicks’ playoff run in ’99) that should have been overwhelmed by an endless hit list of dreadful behavior.

But Knicks fans never booed Sprewell, as they certainly should have in his final years as a Knick, as they certainly should have when he made his unspeakably obnoxious return to Madison Square Garden in December of 2003, spewing profanities at the expensive Garden seats, shaking his fist at James Dolan and all but pouring gasoline on his legacy as a Knick.

No, it took until this season, when Sprewell famously lamented his expiring contract and the Timberwolves’ reluctance to shower him in endless riches, and did so by observing: “I need to feed my family.”

Maybe it was those six fateful words. Maybe it was that, on top of the mounting evidence of Sprewell’s status as a ne’er-do-well basketball citizen. Or maybe it was the realization that Sprewell’s skills as a high-flyer had finally begun to evaporate. But Knicks fans finally seem to be over Sprewell. You don’t see quite so many No. 8 jerseys around town anymore. You don’t hear Knicks fans talk about Sprewell as if he were some old summer flame.

That affair, mercifully, at last appears over.

So can’t we make a pact now to rid this town of its Wells Envy?

Please?

Can’t we finally admit that all those old devotions were misplaced allocations of your sporting devotions? That his achievements as a big-game pitcher were grievously over-dramatized (somehow, some way, the Yankees managed to scrape by and win three of their four recent championships without Wells on their staff, after all).

Can’t it finally be determined that the obnoxious manner in which Wells has conducted his career and his life should no longer be validated by an endless stream of cheers at Yankee Stadium?

Please?

Now, obviously, Wells put himself on the line in the most blatant way possible when he signed with the Red Sox. Rare is the soul who crosses that battle line and retains the fealty of his devotees. Wade Boggs and Roger Clemens learned that lesson. So did Luis Tiant, for the longest time. David Cone was applauded politely during his one-year stint as a Sox, but you could hear the gritting of teeth over that ovation.

Besides, if this were an old issue of “Highlights” magazine, Wells is definitely Goofus, and Cone is clearly Gallant.

The comments Wells made the other day should be the last straw, but who can tell? It wasn’t the first time Wells went after the dueling sacred cows of Joe Torre and Mel Stottlemyre; he did the same thing in Fenway Park two years ago and it mattered nary a whit in the minds of his acolytes. And his is hardly the lone dissenting voice on the Cult of A-Rod. Let’s just say he’s earned his banishment on merit. And let’s hope that’s enough to make it stick.

Look, New York has a long history of allowing its sporting soul to remain in the hands of departed heroes. The ovation Tom Seaver received when he returned to Shea as a Red in the summer of 1977 still echoes along the edges of Flushing Bay. When Eddie Giacomin returned as a Red Wing a few days after the Rangers cut him free in 1975 there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, and just remembering that night can drive an old Blueshirt fan to tears. Same deal with Chico Resch at the Coliseum. Same deal with Clyde Frazier as a Cavalier and Patrick Ewing as a Sonic and Mark Messier as a Canuck. Same deal with Tino Martinez as a Cardinal.

Latrell Sprewell never deserved that loyalty, and finally seems to have lost it. David Wells never did either. Maybe the last week has put that over the top.

Please?

(Mike Vaccaro’s e-mail address is WriteBackVac@aol.com)

VAC’S WHACKS

Art Howe is missed around Mets camp the same way Richie Cunningham’s older brother Chuck was missed around the “Happy Days” set after Year One.

If you’ve grown a little too cynical and a little too jaded about sports in general, and basketball in particular, then reading Adrian Wojnarowski’s astonishing book, “The Miracle of St. Anthony” is not only a requirement, it’s practically a prescription.

The Red Sox sure are awfully chirpy for a team that has now won exactly one more world championship in the last 86 years than the Tampa Bay Devil Rays.